Hangin' with the Ducklings!

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by!

As I write this, my cat, Gracie Ellen Tripod - she of the three legs - insists on lying on my lap. I don't mind the company, but she sure can work up a lot of drool when she's in the mood! About the only time Gracie ever asks for attention is when I'm sitting at the computer, though, so I'm happy to oblige her.

I followed through on my plan to change out Freckle Duck's eggs yesterday. When I approached that fork in the tree she's nesting in, I saw four or five slices of bread - whole slices, not even broken up into duck-sized pieces - ranged around the perimeter of her nest. I know that the people who left them there meant well, but come on! No duck eats whole slices of bread. You have to break them up into small pieces. And even then, no mama wants food around her nest: it will lead predators right to it, for heaven's sake!

In any case, when I went to remove the bread, Freckle bit hell out of my hand. Repeatedly. Hard! Every single one of those bites hurt, too, and one of them scraped across my skin and drew some blood! I can certainly understand her desire to defend her nest, but things were getting painful in a hurry!

So I went 'round to the other side of the tree, reached into the fork and grabbed her from behind. I set her on the ground and poured out some cracked corn for her but she spent the time bitching loudly about the felon who was disturbing her nest. I ignored her squawking and set to work changing out the twelve eggs she's laid for the dozen I'd bought at the grocery store.

My friend, "Enslaved by Ducks" author Bob Tarte, has commented on duck bites in past conversations. He seemed to think that they could do some damage - an idea I dismissed at the time because Pretty Boy's bites were always fairly harmless. In retrospect, I'm beginning to wonder whether my favorite duck pulled his punches, so to speak, because Pretty Boy's bites never hurt like Freckle's did yesterday! I was quite surprised by the hostility in her attack. Then again, that's what mamas are supposed to do, isn't it? When I finished my task and walked away, Freckle climbed back onto her nest, none the wiser about the chicken eggs.

It was supposed to rain today, but when I got to the McKinnon's Pond, there was only the odd sprinkle. So I lingered for a time, sitting quietly on the ground as the other Freckle Duck and her ten offspring tucked into the pile of corn I'd set out for them off to my left, while black duck Baby Fuzz nibbled at the pile of corn I'd set out for her off to my right. Baby still has three ducklings, who are all cute as buttons and not nearly as nervous about me as Freckle's offspring. One of Baby's young has black legs and orange feet, which looks endearingly ridiculous, like day-glo orange shoes. I remember that when Pretty Boy was a duckling, he had similarly silly-looking feet.

Because I'm at the pond several times a week, I have the opportunity to see every stage of the ducklings' growth, as they go from tiny little fuzzballs, to awkward, gangly ducklings, to individuals with their own unique personalities. It's fun to be a part of, even if I'm just a spectator. And while Baby's young are fairly brave about being near me, Freckle's young are brave about everything but me!

Take today for instance: when I first spotted Freckle on the far side of the pond, she only had three ducklings with her. "Aw, jeez," I thought, "she lost seven young overnight?" Boy, was I wrong! Turns out the other seven were just off by themselves, looking into things. For ducklings who are barely two weeks old, that's pretty brave! But the minute they see me - that terrifying, hulking human - they all start peeping for mama! They have selective bravery, I guess!

As always, I thoroughly enjoyed today's interlude at the pond. The longer I sit there quietly, being harmless, the more Freckle Duck relaxes her vigilance. Baby Fuzz already seems to know that I'm only interested in taking pictures, and I've gotten some great ones of her and the kids. By the time they're grown, I'll have filled at least one photo album with pictures of them! Meanwhile, I hope you'll all join me in saying a prayer to the Gods that at least some of those little cuties will make it to adulthood.

That's all for now, folks. Thanks again for joining me. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

We've Got Ducklings!

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by!

I don't know about you, but I was on pins and needles the entire month of May, waiting to see if any ducklings would hatch. Animal Control Officer Jeff and I had scoured the pond area in early May, looking for domestic duck nests, but found nothing. That in itself was unusual because those domestic ducks usually pick easily find-able nesting spots. We walked all the way around the pond, poked into all the shrubs surrounding the nearby apartment buildings, then threw up our hands in despair. Where had those sneaky ducks gone?!

There was one nest that I knew about from the start. Baby Fuzz - the last remaining black duck at the pond - used the same site she had chosen last year, a well-hidden spot under a very sharp and pokey evergreen shrub. Late in April, I replaced all but a few of her eggs, figuring, what's the harm in letting her raise a few; pedators will end up getting most of them anyway. Sure enough, last week Baby showed up at a feed with three ducklings.

All three are cute little nippers, with varying splotches of color on their tiny fuzzball bodies. Since Baby knows me well, she's approached me quite closely at feeds, letting her offspring know in the process that the big hulking human with the bag of food is relatively safe to be around. I hesitate to get attached to her young, though, because I've learned from years of experience that they won't all survive to adulthood. In fact, I've been surprised so far that Baby's managed to hang on to all three ducklings for over a week.

Another domestic duck at the pond had ducklings, as well. Because Freckle Duck is white, I felt sure that I'd be able to spot her nest, but I never did find it. You can imagine my surprise, then, when I showed up at the pond one day to find her with fifteen ducklings! How cute they are, each with their own distinct markings and personalities, peeping and paddling around and poking into things. There's just nothing more entertaining than a batch of enthusiastic ducklings!

As I write this, though, Freckle is now down to ten ducklings and counting, which confirms what I've written previously about all the predators at the pond. And, as sad as I am to see the numbers decrease, I'm also very relieved that over-population won't be an issue this year. I don't want to give the city of Whoville any reason to feel that they have to interfere with the goings-on at the pond. Better to keep the numbers low so as not to raise any questions, I think.

As I was hiding behind a tree today, angling for a better picture of Freckle Duck and her offspring, I heard a familiar huffing sound. I turned my head toward the fork of the tree, only to find the other Freckle Duck (hey - you try thinking up interesting names for every single duck at the pond!) sitting on a nest of her own, huffing at me in warning as she gave me that look which says, "Go away before I bite you to death!" Golly!

Well, there's nothing like hiding in plain sight, is there?! I can't tell you how many times wild mallards have used that same tree fork for their own nests - only to have the nest destroyed by neighborhood children who have nothing better to do with their time than be cruel to animals. Who knew that flightless Freckle could even get up that high off the ground to begin with???

"Rats," I thought, "I'm gonna have to get some more chicken eggs and change 'em out, here." I hope Freckle's eggs aren't too far along, but the deed must be done: it's my job to keep the numbers down, and I take the job seriously. It's not that I dislike ducklings (far from it), it's that I don't want the city of Whoville thinking they need to remove the entire gang from the pond. I've no doubt that they'd end up euthanizing every last one of them, and that would be heartbreaking.

So, it's a mixed bag for me this spring. I'm pleased as punch with all the new little ducklings, but nervous, as well, that the new lives might compromise the safety of the other pond residents. In addition, Pretty Lady has yet to turn up, which leads me to believe that a predator got her, too.

You may recall that Pretty Lady was Pretty Boy's sister. It's sad for me to lose that special generation of ducks, one of the first generations to be born to abandoned duck Missy Miss, all those years ago. Pretty Lady and Pretty Boy were practically fearless about approaching me at feeds, something they certainly never learned from Missy, who remained distrustful during her entire time at the pond.

Meanwhile, I confess that I'm secretly hoping for a duckling to take up where Pretty Boy left off. Not a replacement, of course, but maybe an alpha duck in his own right, trusting and open and ready to make me laugh. Wouldn't that be great!

Well, as with anything else in life, time will tell. I'll keep you posted as the ducklings grow, and, as always, I take loads of pictures of everything. Check out the "view my pics" area of my myspace page, it's where I post the majority of my critter photos. www.myspace.com/crazycritterlady

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters! And please, teach your kids to be kind to critters, too!

Hello Old Friend

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope that spring is in full swing where you are!

I came across an interesting quote recently. It might've been said by Dr. Suess himself, Theodor Geilsel, but I can't be certain of that. In any case, it goes like this: "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." As with anything else in life, that's easier said than done.

I was at my local Meijer store the other week, where I found a 'Best Of Eric Clapton' CD. I'm a huge Clapton fan, and the CD had a number of songs on it that I love. One of those is a tune that gets virtually no air play whatsoever; I came across it years ago tucked away on another album. But this 'Best Of' included that song, "Hello Old Friend."

"Hello Old Friend" is about running into people you haven't seen in a long while, and how agreeable it is to see them again. It's an upbeat song whose chorus goes, "Hello, old friend, it's really good to see you once again." It never occurred to me that that song would make me think of Pretty Boy Duck, but when I popped the recently-purchased CD in the player, and listened to the song I hadn't heard in years, Pretty Boy sprang immediately to mind. The tears followed soon after.

It's easy to become complacent when things run smoothly. And the longer things run smoothly, the more complacent one can become. After years of looking after the ducks without incident, I guess I just assumed that incident-free was the norm, rather than the exception. How foolish I was! After all, I know firsthand how many predators lurk in the area: the hawks and snapping turtles who always make such quick work of the ducklings in spring; the raccoons that keep Animal Control Officer Jeff so busy; the dogs that people bring to the pond and allow to run free - in spite of Whoville's leash law. In retropspect, there were many painful possibilities that I turned a blind eye to.

I suppose we all second-guess ourselves after some preventable tragedy takes place. How easy it is to beat yourself up over things that can't be changed! I've tried very hard not to do that, but the sadness remains nonetheless, so that every time I hear certain songs that remind me of Pretty Boy, the tears welled up in my eyes. I wonder if he ever knew how loved he was.

While I find the aforementioned quote by Dr. Suess interesting, I think that it's much more suited to optimists. For someone like me - for whom loss has been a recurring theme (loss of innocence, loss of childhood, loss of trust), it's hard to smile about the fact of Pretty Boy's life, and my experiences with him, when the loss of him is so devastating. An optimist would say, "But Pretty Boy made your life special!" while I say, "But Pretty Boy is gone!"

So I listen to "Hello Old Friend" and think about all those days/months/years that I took feeding the ducks for granted. Without fail, Pretty Boy - simply by being his alpha duck self - would brighten my mood, often made me laugh, and always made me smile. Who knew a duck could do all that? Who knew it would come to a screeching halt, out of nowhere, without warning?

This, I think, is the lesson to be learned: that it's important to appreciate the great things in your life as an on-going effort, rather than only on special occasions, and not assume that they will still be in your life for years to come. Change can happen in the blink of an eye, and when it does, there's often no time for I-love-you's, or good-bye's. Such was the case with Pretty Boy.

If I seem melancholy, it's because I am. Pretty Boy was a strong presence in my life. He helped define my identity. He was the reason newspapers wrote stories about me. It's hard to know who to be, without him. Of all the remaining ducks at the pond, not one can hold a candle to Pretty Boy; their personalities seem barely formed by comparison. I will, of course, continue to care for those remaining ducks. But there is a painful void, a screaming quiet, where Pretty Boy used to be. That glaring absence is the reason why I cannot "smile because it happened." The loss is simply too great.

There will no doubt be another strong presence at the pond one day, just as there are now special cats in my life where there used to be other special cats before them. The new special cats in no way take the place of the old ones; they merely add more great memories to the collection. But make no mistake: those previous special cats all took pieces of my heart with them when they left, and there is no replacing those missing pieces.

Time is the only cure for a grieving heart, and even time is no guarantee. Every now and then, I still cry over an amazing cat I knew who died ten years ago. Phil Collins' "You'll Be In My Heart" is the song that goes with those special cat memories, and when the local radio station plays it, I take the time to miss Macavity, and grieve anew. I bet you have certain songs that get to you, too.

I've known people who were so devastated by the loss of their pet that they vowed never to get another. I don't agree with that thinking. Just imagine all the wonderful critter characters you'd miss out on if you closed your heart to anything new! As painful as the loss of Pretty Boy - and Macavity before him - is, my heart will go on (another song that makes me cry for a lost critter!) and savor the next phase of life. But right now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go shed a few more tears.

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

p.s. There's another old friend I want to give a nod to: Tammy Shealey! You know who you are! It's been a long time, my friend. Please shoot me an email, let me know how your life is going.

Meet the Critter Lady

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're enjoying sunny spring weather and lots of blooming flowers.

It finally occurred to me - over a year after I began to blog - to tell you a little about myself. I've been so keen to tell you about my critter adventures that I forgot to tell you about the Critter Lady! So here goes, and if you have any questions, please feel free to put them in a comment at the end of this blog.

I'm forty-six years old. Slender build with hazel eyes. My hair is brown, but it comes from a bottle, nowadays! Wrinkles are starting to take hold - road maps, I think, to a life that wasn't always easy or pleasant. I'm a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I spent a number of years being an alcoholic, making bad choices and getting involved with the worst possible men. It was a deeply miserable existence.

After almost twenty years of therapy, I'm finally getting myself together. It's been a long, hard road. Sanity can be elusive, I've learned, unless you're really dedicated to finding and hanging on to it. In spite of all the therapy, I don't generally play well with others. I turned the ringer of my phone off several years ago, now. I screen my calls: there just aren't that many people I feel like talking to, and I resent the intrusion of an incessantly ringing phone. I like my quiet. I'm happiest tending the landscaping in my yard, volunteering at the horse barn, or visiting with the ducks at McKinnon's Pond.

It was precisely because of the abuse in my childhood that I became involved with animals. Critters, I find, are easy on the psyche, and on the soul. If you treat them well, they will love you unconditionally - which is more than I can say for some members of my family. When I was a child, love was predicated on keeping secrets. Maintaining the status quo was far more important than telling the truth, and certainly more important than rescuing me from the hell that was created by the sick bastard who robbed me of my childhood. In more ways than I can articulate, animals have helped me heal every bit as much as conventional therapy.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I grieve far more deeply for animals I've lost than for people. I've spent much more time missing Pretty Boy Duck than I have any of my grandparents. I've been thrown into protracted depressive episodes when beloved cats died. I've gone to great lengths to honor their memories - from having necklace charms made that held some of their ashes, to smuggling one cat's ashes into Great Britain and scattering them at a Royal park. To me, animals are family, while humans are hurtful and not to be trusted.

Because of my trust issues and loner tendencies, it was an enormous stroke of luck that I met boyfriend John. Unflagging in his patience, he gives me room to work at who I want to be in our relationship. His terrific sense of humor makes hard times easier, and his IQ is a match for my own. In many ways, he is the yin to my yang, and his laid-back personality helps to calm the ever-present noise in my head. It's a huge bonus that he's an animal-lover, too!

What do I do for a living? Critters! I spend my days looking after the ducks at McKinnon's Pond, fussing over my own five cats, rescuing injured animals as they come along, and writing about all of it. I came into some money a while back, which buys me time to work on my sanity - as well as take care of critters - without the hassle of a day job. I used to work, but as I said at the beginning of this blog, I don't generally play well with others.

So that's me in a nutshell. I live alone on a beautifully-landscaped half acre of property. That will change one day when I move in with John. He's got room for a duck pond and a horse barn, and he's already been warned that there will be livestock in his future! For now, I continue to work on me. Sanity, sobriety, integrity, compassion, decency - these things, I've found, are the best revenge.

To others who have suffered as I have, I say this: don't just exist. Live fully! Savor each day that you're able to get out of bed and stand on your own two feet. Take time to smell the lilacs when they bloom. Throw snowballs. Laugh out loud. Learn to trust yourself. Give yourself the gift of unconditional love, be it cat, rabbit, mouse, bird, horse, dog or duck. Stop waiting for the mythical "someday" and live your life now, in the present tense. It's not easy, but it is do-able. I can tell you from personal experience that a life well-lived is much better medicine than Prozac. Go for it!

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters - and yourselves.

In Your Face!

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by. I hope that spring has finally sprung in your neck of the woods.

I took a road trip recently with a couple of girlfriends. We went to a British tea shop up in Michigan, and hit some antique stores along the way. There was one store in a building that looked like an old log ranch house, and I seem to recall that the name of the place was rather horsey-sounding: Old Stables Antiques, or some such. While the merchandise inside was interesting, it paled in signifigance to what was out back.

Out back, behind the parking lot, was a sizeable pasture. It was a beautiful spring day, and I could see horses grazing in the distance. There was also a fenced-in area just next to the parking lot, and to my considerable surprise, the animal contained within this pen was not a horse, but a llama. Cool!

Naturally, my excitement over the antiques quicky dissipated as my critter enthusiasm kicked into high gear. "Good morning, Llama!" I called as I made my way across the lot. I find that it's a good idea to announce yourself in advance of an approach - some animals are initially quite shy, so it's best to give them a little warning that you're coming to say hello. In this case, the llama perked up and walked over the the fence to greet me.

I've only met a few horses in my time who were brave and/or interested enough to stand nose-to-nose with me. Most horses will give you a quick, curious sniff, and then go back to whatever they were doing before you interrupted them. I've been told that, being prey animals, they want to know what you've been eating lately (like meat, for instance, in which case they're going to worry that you're there for a horse meat snack), which explains why the first thing they usually want to smell is your breath.

It's probably a little careless on my part to let any animal that big get that close to my face. Because their whole head is made up mainly of bones, any sudden movement on their part could cost you your skull: all those hard horse bones smacking into your head could break just about every bone you have. Even so, I doubt that there's a horseman/woman out there who would pass up the opportunity to give their favorite horse a kiss on the nose. We do it, but we do it mindful of what the danger is.

In any event, the antique store llama, being considerably smaller than the average horse, didn't seem to present an immediate threat to my cranial well-being. It did surprise the hell out of me, though, when he plastered his nose against my own, and stood there for some minutes in that position. At first, I experienced my usual moment of "Uh-oh. Is this a good idea?" Then, deciding to get into the spirit of the thing, I simply stood my ground, looked him in the eye and spoke quietly to him.

"How ya doin', Llama?" I inquired. In lieu of a name - he wasn't wearing any identification - I generally address an animal by his species. The llama said nothing in reply, he merely continued to look at me softly through gentle brown eyes as though he'd never seen a human up close before. We remained like this for several minutes. He finally broke the spell by pulling away, and I wandered back to the antiques inside the store. And while I fully enjoyed the outing with my friends, you already know that my visit with the llama was the high point of the trip for me!

Apart from the road trip, I slept in for several weekends. I wanted to put a little distance between me and old Mikey's death before I went back to the barn. I should've known, though, that the Gods would try to balance out the karma by throwing some positive critter experiences my way. They do it all the time, but I'm not always open to it. This past Saturday, I was.

It's not unusual for Cricket the donkey to do a little braying when she first sees me. It's entirely motivated by the fact that she knows I've got treats on me, and I can usually get her started by giving a few of those treats to someone other than her. Even so, I don't know how long it's been since she actually hee-hawed at me. Usually, it's more of a "snuff-snuff-haw!" This time, though, she threw the whole thing my way!

I had walked into the barn, grabbed a pitchfork and started scooping poop without any of the usual preamble. Ordinarily, I would wander around a bit first, greet those critters who're in stalls, and chat with my fellow barn cleaners. That day, Cricket was aware of my presence well before I'd even given her a thought. As I walked into that end stall, though - and into her line of sight - I heard, "Snuff-snuff-snuff-heeeee-haawwww!" I whirled around in surprise. There she was, two stalls away, looking at me through the bars.

"Cricket!" I hollered, "my favoritest donkey in the whole world!" The barn crew laughed along with me.

"It's nice to be loved," I remarked, while Kaye observed, "She's missed you!" I frankly didn't think Cricket liked me enough to miss me.

I went back to poop scooping, then, thinking that sometimes, the Gods really go out of their way to make you feel like your efforts amount to something. It's enough to know that my once-a-week volunteering makes a difference in the lives of the barn critters; anything else - like Cricket's braying, or the occasional ride on Ruckus - is gravy. But it's really good gravy: every once in a while, one animal or another will let me know that they enjoy my company, and that's a reward all its' own.

There was more, later that same day. Nancy's boarding a new horse these days, one that may (hopefully) or may not end up being a permanent resident. His name is Jem, and I met him for the first time a few weeks ago. He had charmed me enough at that first meeting that I was looking forward to seeing him again this time. Once we'd finished cleaning all the stalls, I went looking for him.

I stood in front of his stall talking quietly to him. He pushed his nose up against mine in greeting - just as the llama had done, and we stood like that for some minutes. I was enchanted as much by his gentleness as by his friendliness, and I began to wonder what it would take to make him mine.

Mind you, I'm not a wealthy woman. To be honest, I really don't have much of nuthin'. But when boyfriend John and I first began emailing (we met online), and he sent me pictures of the farm he lives on, my first set of questions - even though we hadn't actually met in person yet - went like this:

What kind of crops do you grow?

Where would the horses live?

Does farming thirty acres pay the bills?

Where would the horses live?

What do you do when there's a drought year?

Where would the horses live?

To his credit, John resisted the urge to change his email address. Instead, he gamely talked about where a horse barn could feasibly be located someday. Between you and I, he has no idea how rapidly "someday" is approaching! Once he meets Jem, I think he'll understand.

So while part of my heart is torn and aching from the loss of Pretty Boy, Peepers, and old Mikey, there's still plenty of room left for whatever comes next. Could be a new duckling at the pond, could be a cool horse named Jem. When I know, you'll be the first people I tell!

Thanks again for stopping by! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

All Things Must Pass

Hi Folks.

Thanks for stopping by.

It was Mr. Spock, in 'The Undiscovered Country,' who said, "Nature abhors a vacuum." I'm finding lately that he was right. While my own world, in dealing with the grief of losing Pretty Boy, ground to a painful halt, life at the pond carried on. Within days of Pretty Boy's death, white Pekin Puddle Duck somehow figured out that Girlfriend Duck was in need of a companion. How he knew that, living on the other side of the pond as he was, I have no clue. But he's been by her side ever since.

While Puddle Duck doesn't possess any of the attitude that made Pretty Boy so charming, he's willing to do whatever is necessary to look after his new friend: several times, I've seen him shooing away wild mallard drakes so that Girlfriend Duck could eat her corn in peace. Every time I approach the pond now, I find the two Pekins in close proximity to each other. It's an arrangement that suits them both.

Another life that carries on is that of Pretty Boy's wing man, Ducky. While it's unlikely that Ducky knows that his friend has died, a curious thing has happened since he went to live with the Mitchell's: he's come out of his shell and into his own. It's an unexpected turn of events.

Ducky had been dumped at the pond as an adult, and he never really settled comfortably into the new living arrangement. As a result, he was content to walk in Pretty Boy's shadow, and he no doubt felt safe with the alpha duck looking out for him. When he first arrived at the Mitchell's, Ducky looked to Chicken for the same sort of security, but as time passed, some inexplicable change took root. Now, I'm told, Ducky chases squirrels off the property, as well as birds, rabbits, chipmunks and any other interlopers he feels brave enough to face down. He's clearly more confident, now, and more sure of his surroundings.

One of the main reasons I've kept the ducks at McKinnon's Pond - instead of pushing boyfriend John to hurry up and dig that duck pond - is because the place is so damned big. The pond is easily the size of a football field, with grass and shade trees along the banks, and it's located on a quiet street in a quiet subdivision. To my mind, it's the perfect place for a duck to live - if you can overlook, that is, the fact that any number of predators also call the area home. To ducks like Pretty Boy, who're born there, it must seem like paradise. To ducks like Ducky, who were dumped there having first known a more secure life somewhere else, it must've been a nightmare.

So while Pat Mitchell continues to express surprise at the changes in Ducky - the new-found assertiveness, the obvious pleasure he takes in patrolling his territory - they don't surprise me much at all. It makes sense that in that more contained environment, Ducky would thrive and blossom. And it's a joy to see. The last time I stopped in for a visit, Ducky ran all the way across the yard to greet me, quacking happily as he inspected me for treats. His new passion, I was told ahead of time, is saltine crackers. I came prepared.

As I drove home from that visit, it occurred to me that I hadn't been greeted so heartily by a duck since Pretty Boy died. Ducky will never take Pretty Boy's place, of course, but how satisfying it was to stand in the Mitchell's driveway, calling Ducky's name, just like I used to call Pretty Boy, and watching Ducky race toward me as fast as his webbed feet would carry him. Nature does, indeed, abhor a vacuum. There will never be another Pretty Boy, but there will be other ducks, and other critter friendships, that will be satisfying in their own right. I just have to be open to them as they come along.

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Notes in the Midst of Grief

Hi Folks. Thanks for stopping by.

As I've struggled to come to terms with the death of Pretty Boy Duck, I've stuggled, too, with my memories of him, and my inability to articulate the sights and sounds that made him so special to me. There are no words to describe the noises he made while in my care: the snuffling, honking sounds that were his warning to me to stop touching him; the throaty, glottal noises that actually sounded more like a croaking frog than anything else, as he chomped repeatedly on that offending hand of mine. The closest I can come is to borrow from Bob Tarte's description of his own ducks, muttering something along the lines of, "duck, duck, duck." I miss those noises.

There's another noise I miss just as much: the sound of my own voice hollering, "GOOD MORNING, PRETTY BOY!!! HOW YA DOIN', HANDSOME BUBBY?" It was the same thing I yelled every morning. He'd come running from wherever he was, intent on being the first to get to the corn I'd dumped out on the ground. Even if he was the last duck to arrive, he'd still shoulder his way to the head of the hand-out line, coming to a stop right in the middle of the pile of corn. He was usually no more than a foot away from me, and I often reached out to stroke his feathers while he ate.

There was an incident which took place in my bathroom that I think I'll cherish the most among all my memories of that goofy duck. I had asked boyfriend John to come over and take pictures of Pretty Boy and I during one of his stays last summer. I like to document my critter adventures so that I can show you - not just tell you - what I was up to. So I stood in my bathroom holding Pretty Boy as John snapped away with the camera. Things were going well enough until I felt a strange presence against my neck. Pretty Boy was up to something, but I couldn't tell what. "What's he doing?" I asked John.

"Nothing," he replied. Like hell!

Calmly, I pressed the issue, "Are you sure he's not going for my jugular?"

"I'm sure," said John. Hmmmmm. It sure FELT like he was going for my jugular!

It wasn't until I got the film developed that I saw exactly what Pretty Boy had been doing. Look for yourself - scroll up the photos on the right side of this page until you get to one with a caption underneath that reads, "Apparently, I've been forgiven!" John was right: Pretty Boy hadn't been going for a vein at all; instead, he appeared to be snuggling up against me. It's something he never did before or after that day. It was a wonderful moment, and I'm thrilled that it was recorded on film.

In the weeks immediately following Pretty Boy's death, I had to endure two other losses. First came old Mikey out at the horse barn. I'd been away from the barn for a few months, and just assumed that when I returned, I'd find everything the way I'd left it. Boy, was I wrong. I walked in one Saturday in late March to find Mikey pacing frantically up and down the aisles. When I asked Nancy about it, she told me that he was dying. I don't know about you, but my mind doesn't easily wrap itself around something as frank as, "He's dying." But when I pressed her further, it started making sense. Old Mikey was thirty-two years old. He'd been decrepit for years. And now, his organs were shutting down.

Nancy had put a call in to the equine vet, who came out and euthanized Mikey a couple hours later. We'd finished cleaning the stalls by then, and Mandy, feeling a bit overwhelmed, I think, by the prospect of watching a horse die, decided to head home. I stuck around, hoping that by being a part of the end of Mikey's life, death would somehow become easier to bear. I turned out to be wrong about that, too. Death - or, more specifically, loss - hurts like hell. And you can't cheat your way out of that fact no matter how hard you try. As the drugs coursed through Mikey's veins, I sobbed quietly, as much for the loss of Pretty Boy as for that old horse. Mikey'd had a good long life, all right, but I hadn't been ready to say good-bye.

A few days after Mikey passed, I was at McKinnon's Pond feeding the ducks when I noticed that white Pekin Peepers was missing. Being fairly certain that Peeps was male, I felt sure that he wasn't sitting on a nest of eggs somewhere. And no matter how big that pond is, it's very hard to miss a big white duck. I made a mental note of his absence and continued with my day.

I got home to find a voice mail from Pat Mitchell. There was something in the sound of her voice that told me bad news was in the offing, and I said as much as I left a message for her. When we finally connected, she said, "It is bad news but probably not who you think." She thought I'd be worried about Ducky, but I already knew better. "No," I replied, "it's a white Pekin, isn't it?" She answered in the affirmative; Peepers had died.

She and Pete had found him acting strangely at the pond that morning. Unable to balance himself, he appeared as though drunk or drugged. Pat managed to catch him - and normally, those domestics can run pretty fast - which told me that he was really badly sick or injured. She brought him back to the house and put him in a quiet place, where he died later the same day. Now Pat was asking whether I wanted the body. When she offered to bury him on her property, I thanked her and agreed that that would be best.

Like Pretty Boy before him, I'd known Peepers since he was an egg. He'd been one of the last ducklings hatched before I'd instituted the Planned Duckhood project. Because Pretty Lady had popped out a few more eggs after he arrived, Peeps spent a lot of time on his own, following the other Pekins around and learning from them how to be a duck. He was an intrepid little soul, and braver than most ducklings: he approached me at feeds much earlier than usual with young ducks, which charmed me no end.

Peepers and I were never close in the way I was with Pretty Boy. But he learned his name, and was among the handful who trusted me enough to get close at the feeds without worrying about the hulking human sitting among them. I would have been sorry to see him go under the best of circumstances, but these were not, as we already know, any kind of good circumstances to begin with. The loss of Peeps was yet another straw on the camel's back.

So it's been a difficult time, lately. I still go feed the ducks three times a week, but it's with a heavy heart, and lacks the enthusiasm I enjoyed all those years I'd stand watching that big goofy duck racing toward me, Girlfriend Duck in tow, flapping his bill in anticipation of food and a visit. I just don't have the same relationship with any of the remaining ducks, so my joy is muted.

I'll continue to feed the ducks, though, and make my rounds during egg-laying season. I'll continue to holler things like, "GOOD MORNING, DUCKS! EVERYBODY COME HAVE CORN!" I'll continue to be a little embarassed when humans overhear me talking to them. And I'll continue to miss that funny, enigmatic, big, black, bossy duck, Pretty Boy.

That's all for now, folks. Thanks so much for stopping by. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!